


Tensile Strengh

by Kaiserkorresponds



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angry Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Angst and Feels, Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Pre-Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sick Character, Sick Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sickfic, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:27:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27055654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiserkorresponds/pseuds/Kaiserkorresponds
Summary: "Who knows what?" Tim scoffed. "It's that head cold from research. God knows how he got it, never talking to anyone, but it's just a cold."Martin frowned, opening his mouth to answer before a fit of grueling coughs echoed from behind the shut office door. The sound was rattly, and wet, with a thick wheeze on each strained exhale, going on for far longer than what could even be considered even remotely healthy."That, Tim," Martin said. "Is not a head cold."
Comments: 10
Kudos: 155





	Tensile Strengh

"Come on Martin, he's barely even human. What germs could possibly get through all the creepy shit he has going on?" 

Martin frowned. "Tim, I know you don't like him but-" 

"But what, Martin?" Tim growled. "He's not sick. And if he was, the bastard deserves it anyway." 

"Just take it, take it easy on him, Tim." Martin sighed, turning away towards the mess of files. 

The image of Jon's flushed, pale face burned into his thoughts. The man was already unhealthily thin, not an ounce of extra fat on his body, and the dark flush across his cheekbones only accented it. Not to mention the thick sheen of sweat that highlighted the glossiness of his dark eyes, and had dampened his messy curls. And the worrisome way he was breathing, wheezing, and labored. Obviously far sicker than just having allergies as he had tried to claim earlier. 

Martin let out a slow breath. 

He couldn't sit there knowing Jon was that ill and not mitigate it in some way. 

Martin stood, carefully shoving away the mess of papers across the desk, and headed toward Jon's closed door. 

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Tim muttered from behind him. 

Martin turned. "Tim, I understand you're angry. We've all, we've been through a lot lately. But I can't let him stay there, ill and alone, and with who knows what." 

"Who knows what?" Tim scoffed. "It's that head cold from research. God knows how he got it, never talking to anyone, but its just a cold." 

Martin frowned, opening his mouth to answer before a fit of grueling coughs echoed from behind the shut office door. The sound was rattly, and wet, with a thick wheeze on each strained exhale, going on for far longer than what could even be considered even remotely healthy. 

"That, Tim." Martin said. "That is not a head cold." 

He turned abruptly and knocked on Jon's door. 

"Jon?" He called softly. "Can I come in?" 

Tim made a distasteful noise. 

Ignoring him, Martin knocked again on the door. "Jon? Are you in there?" 

"Course he's in there. Ignoring us all like he's not stalking us 24/7." 

"Tim, if you're not going to be helpful just stop talking." Martin snapped. 

Tim threw his hands up in a mock peaceful gesture, turning back to his phone. 

"Jon, I'm coming in, pause your statement, or whatever you need to do." Martin called softly and pushed the door open. 

"Jon." He cried, instantly racing to the desk. 

Jon was sprawled on top of the cheap wood, an angry flush darkening his skin down to his shirt collar. His breathing was even worse, somehow thin and wheezy, yet also horribly damp, and in the dim light, he appeared more fragile than ever, all sharp angles and sweat soaked bangs. 

"Jon, wake up, it's time to wake up." Martin shook his shoulder gently, wincing at the feverish heat radiating even through his sweater. 

Jon made a faint whining noise. 

"Come on, Jon. You need to wake up." Martin shook harder, his fingers able to wrap almost completely around Jon's tiny upper arm. 

"What's Mr. Dramatic up to this time?" Tim's drawl from the doorway caused him to startle in place. 

"Tim, he's sick." Martin said, unable to keep the fear out of his voice. "He's really sick." 

Tim rolled his eyes. "I doubt it."

"Oi, Jon." He called roughly, knocking loudly against the doorframe. "Time to wake up, show us all you're still kicking." 

Jon didn't stir. 

Tim scowled. He crossed the room in two angry strides and roughly shook Jon's shoulder, digging his fingers in painfully. 

Jon didn't stir beyond a faint groan, the sound wheezing out from his chapped lips.

"Jon." Tim snapped. "Jon, wake up."

Martin grasped Tim's wrist, turning upwards to look into his face. "Tim, stop. He's not faking, he's really sick." 

Tim's eyes flickered back and forth between Martin and Jon's prone form. 

"He needs help, Tim." Martin pleaded. "This isn't a cold, he's seriously ill." 

Tim glared for a long second. 

"Okay." He relented with a sharp nod. "I'll get the car. You get him out of here without Elias killing us both." 

"Thank you." Martin called softly as he stalked out of the office. 

Tim gave no sign he had heard.


End file.
